Tainted Love
by Hitsuiro Issa
Summary: A prostitute is all like the others. That is what he believes. But Watanuki says so otherwise- or maybe because, in the end, he's a prostitute too? Blood and death and gore and all that stuff. And sex. 8D Obviously rated M. DouWata. Character deaths


**Tainted Love **

**Pairing: **Doumeki Shizuka and Watanuki Kimihiro

**Warnings: **Blood and sex and two character deaths. Why do I like killing them off?

**Disclaimer: **Oh no, xxxHolic cannot be mine. Think of all the angst I would bring. D:

**A/N:** Incredibly long and dark oneshot. IT'S NOT EVEN A ONESHOT ANYMORE. D Notes at the end of the story. I guess I have to explain a few things. XD For now, enjoy! Oh, it's not going to be my fault if anyone of you cries. Your tears are completely under your responsibility. Amen.

-

It was not his first time to have been called forth by an anonymous customer, because clients that actually gave their names to dirty service often risked soiling their 'decent' reputations- after all, it was not the common peasant that afforded to render services from their humble dwelling; mayors and diplomats and governors were numerous, a common sight; rich aristocrats and businessmen weren't so rare either. The cheapest a man- or a woman, for it matters not, they are a mixed lot within the erotic compounds of their abode- would deem over a solid ten thousand yen, and will not be sold for less. Steep prices have their good reasons behind being so customer-exclusive; the workers, or the lambs, as they were called, were top-notch prostitutes, who were all well-adopted to the ways of explicit erotica, and cannot be taken lightly for they were decent and educated people; they lived with refined grace in any way, be it man or woman, for grace was simply the importance to a suitable, alluring appearance.

And customers were to dress as appropriately too, but the man who had summoned for his services was clearly not following the rules- in fact, he was sabotaging the whole image of a refined man, and though there were times when their visitors were forced to wear long hooded robes to conceal their identities (there's an intended pun there), they had never gone so far as to looking like a thief of the earlier centuries.

He took note of the man's visible features, slightly fearing the fact that he was concealing his identity too well, and hesitated briefly. What if this was the killer the news had been broadcasting since last month? A number of murders had been committed all throughout the prostitute population for awhile now, and though nobody had been killed yet in this particular pub, what if? He shivered, long fingers pulling at the end of his sleeves, and prayed to all the gods of religion that he was not to be killed that night.

It's a good week after September, and the climate had started to grow particularly cold- and though the leaves hadn't started falling yet, some were already colored in a brightening shade of orange, a clear sign that autumn was to start a few days sooner. He's dressed in the elaborative and distinguished clothes of a prostitute, of a lamb, with bright colored layers of his kimono and a sash that could be loosened rather easily- and eyes, a marvelous yet peculiar shade of blue and the gold, stared nervously from behind crystal lenses of black-rims. White, clear skin could be seen peeking shyly from beneath draping fabric, and with his kimono designed to reveal the smooth pale flesh of his shoulders, he crosses his arms and wraps himself with his small hands and long fingers, palms carefully placed on the base of his bare arms. It was not because he was shy- and how could he be, if by this time he would reach a good year of servitude- but instead of fear, of nervousness, and because of the suspicious gut-feeling he's been having ever since he was called for.

In all honesty, if he had only been given a right to choose, he'd abandon this service of dark needs and erotic desires- and look for a better way of life outside the compound walls, ready to straighten himself and perhaps leave behind all sexual interests, heterosexual or not (a year is a year, after all, and that could be all the sex you might ever need in life). But he had never been given the chance to escape, and his keeper (who supervised them all) was a fine yet strict man, and though he was not one to mistreat any of his workers or abuse them, he was not one to release them without a wealthy compensation in return. It was because, after all, the man had no other means of a job, and this was too nice a business to abandon that easily all of a sudden.

So he was stuck. Watanuki Kimihiro, age eighteen, was stuck in a place where people his age had only been recently allowed to go to, but he had been here since he was in high school (not a nice impression for anyone), and until now he was working. A year of answering to a stranger's call for obscenity- it was not a thought- or an experience- a boy like him (or anybody else) should have, but he had never had a choice in the first place anyway.

He bends, intending to peer into the hood covering his customer's face, in a way that it wasn't obvious he wanted to do so; after all, privacy was always to be respected, even in places like this. But as he did so, however, he couldn't conceal the surprise that surged through him and gasped quite audibly, and the man who had called him forth raised his head so that it would seem he was staring at him. And he probably was.

What scared him in the first place was a pair of golden orbs glinting from within the hood, a pair of eyes he was so familiar with and had never thought to see ever again. "Doumeki...-san," he mouthed, though saying the -san a little louder.

They were friends. Well, at least he thought they were, before he had disappeared into the Lamb's Cradle (the name of the pleasure house he was working in now). A good year of isolation from his classmates resulted in his confidence that none of them knew, and none of them ever will, but Doumeki was his superior- a senior of a school year or two, and he was probably a graduate now but still...of all the people he would serve, it was a temple-boy, a son-of-a-monk, elite archer Doumeki Shizuka. Not a thought he liked.

Doumeki didn't say anything, but instead took hold of his wrist and pulled him into one of the private rooms where customers were served (sometimes it was permitted to bring a lamb home, but it required a lot of paper work and extra cash). Watanuki stumbled a few steps and quickly regained his posture, frowning prettily (he couldn't help it) and made a mental reminder to nag at Doumeki for being here in the first place, but honestly Watanuki was relieved to see a familiar face, after all these times.

Doumeki was the one who stuck by him in school, and though Watanuki had always ranted about the insistent presence of the archer, he was truly grateful. Really. Theirs was a sort of love-hate relationship- and though Watanuki could never have guessed that there was something between them, he knew as much that one was forever important to the other. He paused at the thought there, and furthered it down to the possibility that Doumeki would really like to have sex with him- and he blushed, a red shade from his neckline to his ears, and he hoped his said customer would not notice.

"Watanuki." the voice was low, and it sounded a little gruffer than what the prostitute could remember- but it was surely Doumeki's.

"Yes?" he replied, not bothering calling the man 'master' or anything kinky at all, because that was only by request and he didn't really want to call Doumeki anything. He felt awkward and withdrawn and terribly shy. After all, for what other reason could Doumeki be here, other than for having sex? And with him, even? He doubted he would not have minded if it was Himawari who asked him, but...he wasn't really sure. He was scared.

"I've missed you." Doumeki said, as blatantly as he always had, and Watanuki dropped the bottle of pills he had in his hand. It made a soft 'clunk' as it made contact with the carpet at his feet.

"I...yeah." He wasn't really sure of what to say, and left it at that, and bent to pick up the bottle he had dropped.

The silence that followed was incredibly unnerving, and as Watanuki quickly dumped a few pills into his hand, he could feel Doumeki shift uncomfortably in his seat- and with a quick movement, Watanuki threw his head back and swallowed the pills in his hand. They always kept him on his feet before and after sex, and he prayed it would help him now.

"So," he started, screwing the lid back on the bottle and placing it on the table by the bed. It was a well-decorated room, with a large mattress and elegant sheets of red and black, and it was dimly lit. "What are you doing here?"

Doumeki was clutching at something in his sweater, and his expression was indecisive and strained. Something he had never seen on the usually stoic archer. However, his voice was as deadpanned as always. "I've come for what I've always wanted." He replied.

The statement was enough to fully throw Watanuki off-guard, because what else can Doumeki want from him, besides him himself? His hands were shaking now, and suddenly a whole year's of experience deemed incredibly useless in his present situation. What would you do if you're going to have sex with someone you love?

"Doumeki-" Watanuki blurts, but he sighs instead, and falls on the bed with a soft thump. "Doumeki."

His golden-eyed superior made his way towards him, leaning forward, making sure that their bodies aligned perfectly and that there was no way Watanuki could push him back. "Watanuki."

Watanuki could only close his eyes and return the kiss, ignoring Doumeki's other hand circling his throat.

-

He was a son of a monk, or he thought he was, because that was what he was taught in the first place.

It was a peaceful life to bask in, truthfully; he had chores, yes, but Haruka was a fine man to live with, who always gave him time to recreate in between work and lectures. Doumeki Shizuka learned fast, keeping all teachings to his heart, and building around himself a wall designed to repel those of malice, and let through those who mean well.

That was how his 'talent'- as Haruka had so fondly called, with that mischievous, childish twinkle in his aging brown eyes- was stimulated through the years they had been together, an incredibly carefree grandfather and his stoic grandson. Ever since Haruka had laid his eyes on the young boy brought to him, all covered in blood and silent, he had seen the potential lying in wait within the young boy, perhaps further hidden from sight because of what he had gone through. And Haruka had wanted to manifest it, to nurture it, as he would the boy- and he did, and the boy grew well and flourished underneath his wings.

Shizuka's past was terrible; he was not young enough to be able to understand the situation he had gotten himself into, nor was he experienced enough to understand it all. Haruka could see, no matter how many times he forced himself not to, the blood of the boy's own mother staining his grandson's skillful hands.

"Murder is a mortal sin, and though it can be forgiven, it is not easy to forget," was what he had always told the people he had preached to, in the earlier days. He could hear those very same words echo in his mind whenever he looked upon the boy who had killed his own mother.

There was a demon inside him.

And besides that, it was not intentional, not something a little boy like Shizuka would do- he harbored no hate, took no grudges- yet he never could forgive. Shizuka had a reason to raise the lamp way above his head, though; a reason to smash it hard against his mother's face.

You see, his mother was a whore.

Shizuka was what one could say an unwanted child- a boy built from Shizuka's mother and her client, a young monk who had apparently gotten sick of following his father's footsteps and ran away to get laid. Until now, Haruka could not fathom why the woman had decided to keep her son when she wouldn't love or care for him once he was born- and learned soon enough why. Shizuka was a walking exorcist; he repelled and damaged malignant spirits who approached him, and that was something a prostitute could take advantage of. Because when clients came bad, and threats of death and exposure numerous, Shizuka's mother poisoned them. That was why she was haunted by the dead- until Shizuka was conceived.

Haruka couldn't help to feel bad for his son too, sometimes; the young man had loved his prostitute, and had proposed to her, didn't he? They were going to get married within the family temple, and he was going to be forgiven, but that wasn't how things were supposed to be.

The young man had gone back home to see his lover in the arms of another, with a wad of cash in her hand. Shizuka had seen everything that had happened before his very own eyes; his father had grabbed a blade from the kitchen counter, where his mother had been cooking; she and her customer, while still together in a lewd position of sex, had been stabbed repeatedly, from neck down the lower back; heard his father scream "YOU SLUT, YOU WHORE!" again and again, his hands never stopping, the blood never ceasing to come in large spurts from the inflicted wounds; and Shizuka, angered and enraged and upset, walked towards his mother and stared down at her as she panted for dear life, a moment later when his father had gone.

"Shizuka," said the woman. "Save me, Shizuka. Use your gift. Your powers. Aren't you supposed to save me? You worthless child. Save me." She repeated those words, still fighting for breath, and Shizuka had taken the lamp from the table and smashed it onto his mother's face.

It was the demon inside him, Haruka believed. Poisoning the boy's thoughts and smothering his sanctity. One day, it will be his undoing, but Haruka had believed that there was a remedy, a cure, so well-hidden and unknown that even an exorcist like him (and the boy himself) could not even fathom what it might be.

But demons were always lured in by a strong, unwavering, emotion; they did not appear as the child could be born. There was a medium, a hidden truth, that had attracted the demon to the boy- strong enough to lure in a monster capable of housing within an exorcist's body.

So Haruka asked why.

How could he not?

"We were supposed to be a happy family," the little boy had replied, in a warm summer night underneath the full moon; "I hated her. How could she destroy the one dream I was holding on to? How can people be cruel like that, be so disgusting? She had dad to supply her with money. She had me to protect her. Grandfather," and here Shizuka turned, looking straight at his grandfather's eyes, his only relative and family left in the world, with his bright amber eyes and shadowed, tortured face; "I hate them."

By 'them' Shizuka had meant 'prostitutes', but Haruka didn't say a word.

When Shizuka was in his first year in high school, Haruka died. It was terrible, really, because the old man had not been able to do anything to save his grandson from such a dire fate; and the temple and everything else was then transferred to Shizuka's name, being the only receiver. It was enough. The weekly donations were enough to pay Shizuka's tuition fees (reduced in half for he was a scholar) and supplied well for his meals and other needs. Shizuka immersed himself in archery then, and studied hard, pushing away all means of contact with people unless necessary. Although detached, Shizuka's handsome features attracted countless fans and admirers, and sometimes girls would even make food for him, though he never found any contentment in eating them.

And then he met him.

Watanuki Kimihiro was always alone by himself, but he was incredibly warm to people; he smiled a bright smile, the kind that warmed a person when directed at- even indirectly, because that was how Shizuka noticed him in the first place. It was a brief meeting, a simple dropping of books, and Shizuka had stooped to help- and that was when Watanuki had smiled at him, and said his thanks, and Shizuka could swear he was temporarily blinded- and temporarily warmed. Ever since then, Shizuka approached the bespectacled teen, who was always eating by himself (which surprised him immensely), and had stuck by his side, although Watanuki was soon ranting into his ears how much of an ass Shizuka was, how cute Himawari-chan was, and other things and insults Shizuka knew never meant anything in the first place.

Their bond deepened when Shizuka found out that Watanuki was constantly running from spirits when he was alone; apparently his blood was a delicious treat to them, and those eyes- one blue and the other golden- could see each and every one of those spirits as clear as day. It was luck, Watanuki had said, that he had met Shizuka and befriended him; it was hitsuzen, the inevitable, Shizuka had said instead.

Then one day, just as suddenly as Haruka was taken from him, Watanuki was gone as well.

-

_Shffft, aaah. _

The sheets were everywhere, in between and over, underneath and around;

_Closer, closer. Shhffft, aaaaah. _

Watanuki threw his head back and bit his lip, careful to keep his screams to himself, because it was a written law not to make so much noise during sex, in the pub.

_More. More! Slowly. Faster. _

Doumeki's hips soon synchronized with Watanuki's own thrusts, and as his movements hastened, his hands found their way up and down Watanuki's incredibly smooth thighs. He decided it best to keep such gestures in time with their fucking, and found it stimulating even- and he increased pressure, pinching the soft skin this time, grinding his hips somewhat mercilessly. Watanuki was probably used to such pain, and it didn't matter at this stage.

And matter it did not. Watanuki was- illegally- throwing his whole being into this one, solid night, a fresh break from strange faces and unfamiliar skin; he felt at home, completely, and suddenly rebellious thoughts were starting to collect in his head- that afterwards he'd run away, follow Doumeki, and never come back. He could almost taste the freedom in the air, pure and slightly erotic, and he smiled as another moan was ripped from his throat, immensely enjoying the ministration Doumeki was doing to his body- because although he wasn't new to this, it was different. This was Doumeki he was having sex with.

And Doumeki's hands were lovely, soothing, even after sex- he allowed himself to rest and breathe in the archer's unique smell, bask in the man's warmth- and Doumeki didn't push him away, how could he? This was something both had wanted. Solely.

He breathed in, breathed out. His heart had started to accelerate for some reason, and he was about to push himself up to see what was wrong (because his heart never beat like this if all was well) when suddenly a pair of rough hands found their way up and around his slim throat.

Watanuki gagged slightly, being push onto his back, and Doumeki hovered above him with the same look he always wore back in their school days. It was a face of total lack of involvement, detached and cold; and he realized it was tears that were trailing the sides of his head, downwards to the bed with his gaze pulled up like this, and for a moment his vision swam.

"D-doumeki-" he gasps, but the grip stayed; "W-why?"

"I loved you, Watanuki. But instead, what do you do? Serve men with that disgusting body of yours, never once thinking about the people who matter most. Or am I just one of them?" Doumeki's grip tightened. "Am I?"

The smaller boy weakly brought his hands to his lover's face, tears now streaming continuously from his eyes. "Gods, Doumeki...you're not...I love you-"

"That was what my mother said. The same things she told my father, the same things she promised him, but in the end it was a lie. And I'm sure-" his hands slackened, and Doumeki stood, eyes burning amber as he stared Watanuki down. "I'm sure you're lying too."

Watanuki gasped for air, coughing loud and willing more oxygen into his lungs, all the while his eyes on the man retrieving something from the pile of clothes in the corner. The younger man sat up, wrapping himself with the last layer of his kimono, and wiped his tears.

"You're an idiot," he says quietly, and Doumeki didn't reply; "You're a complete idiot. I love you. You don't know how happy I was to see you again. You don't know how happy I felt when you said you wanted me, and I offered myself to you, didn't I?" He attempted a smile, then, and Doumeki trembled inwardly at the sincerity and concern radiating from the mere gesture; "I'm sorry about your parents, Doumeki. Shizuka. But I swear, I'm different. I want to be with you."

Doumeki stood in his place, both hands at his sides, a malicious hint of blade glinting from his right hand. Watanuki took no notice of this and stood, walking to his upset lover, and wrapped the man in his embrace. Slowly, strong arms found their way around the younger man's waist, and Watanuki could feel a dampness on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry for hurting you." was what Doumeki said, after a while.

"It's okay."

But it wasn't.

Because right then and there, something clicked. As soon as Watanuki raised his head to stare into Doumeki's golden eyes, there was a horrifying racking that trembled through the taller man's body, and his hands shook, and the blade glinted.

Watanuki could see something dark and red emit from the man in his arms, and he knew his impending fate, and embraced it.

"If there was ever anybody capable of freeing me from this prison," Watanuki whispered, as he felt the knife press slowly onto his back, as if testing the softness of his skin; "It would be you."

And Doumeki saw red.

-

He jumped off a building, they said.

-

How could they have locked up a person who refused to look up, even to testify himself? He had no will to live, they said, and his sanity had long broke. All he says now is "Send me to Watanuki" again and again, and the people could understand, judging by the list of crimes his mother had done and the large portions of misfortune that had befallen upon the man. Clearly, locking him up for a hundred years, to rot and die alone, was injustice, and not a crime they would have stood for.

So it was then agreed that the murderer and victim, named Doumeki Shizuka, was to be brought into an asylum, a dark and lonely place where the public kept their delirious inhabitants. Shizuka was to run a couple of tests, then go through sessions to redeem his sanity and conscience; but the man was long gone, killed the same night he had murdered his lover.

He was, though, permitted to the roof, and Shizuka spent his time there thinking, reminiscing, regretting.

And, on one bright afternoon, he jumped.

And died in a tantalizing art of blood and brains, his face hardly distinguishable, but it was Doumeki Shizuka nonetheless.

The police had done some good work on cleaning the pavement, getting the blood off the asphalt; the person in charge of taking the autopsy had even left a comment on the corpse, after carefully arranging the bits of bones and flesh and mixing them with ceramic and clay, just to rebuild his face.

The boy died smiling, said the worker.

He was smiling when he jumped.

---

**A/N: **OKAY. Let's take a breather for a minute. In all honesty, I cried after proof-reading it. It's either it's really sad, or I'm a wuss.

NOW NOTES:

The plot has been heavily influenced by the shounen-ai manga, **Boy next Door**. It is certainly obvious, and I am not making any attempts at proclaiming the idea mine. Perhaps a bit, because I came up with the demon thing (HAHA) but all in all, it's the manga. They even have the same ending. Somewhat. XD

WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DOUMEKI? Yes. I've been repeatedly soiling his holiness with my insistent DARKNESS. For that crime I must pay, I know. Killing even Watanuki? Have I gotten too far? D: But anyway. It's all fun and exhilarating to write pretty heavy stuff like this. I'm enjoying my glory days before hell.

AND WHAT HAVE I DONE TO WATANUKI? I made him into a GODDAMN SEXY WHORE. Oh yeah. I have issues. And I'm sure CLAMP wouldn't be too happy to see their characters getting mixed up in this kind of hell. It's partially because of what I thought of Watanuki during the **Paint my Silence **days. I imagined him saying, "What is your wish?" in that really sexy way, and well, it hit me. PROSTITUTE. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA---(is bricked).

I got too lazy to tidy up the ending. I don't know. I just wanted to kill him off already, because it was too hard to imagine Doumeki without a Watanuki- and they come in valued packs, too. (THERE IS NO SENSE THERE D: ). Sorry about that. I have problems with endings. XD

About the demon: well, I couldn't imagine Doumeki killing Watanuki in the end if his hatred was all he had- that would become extremely out of character. And I've vandalized Doumeki enough already. SO THE GREAT HITSUIRO-SAMA HAS DECIDED IT BEST TO HAVE A DEMON MANIPULATE HIM. Did me some good too. XD Doumeki may be angry, but when it comes to Watanuki, he could forgive. I know as much. :3

And that's it. Hope you've all enjoyed, and NO, tissues are not for free. Cookies are, though, good sports. :D Thanks for reading. PLEASE REVIEW. I accept rants and raves, but no flames. I burn too. And I soon will, for destroying two remarkably innocent people with a flick of the pen. Or the keyboard. Whatever.

Cheerio,

Hitsuiro Issa


End file.
